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Here are the drabbles. There are fifteen, yes, we have two dropouts already (or Zach Smiths as they're known in this bar).

What you need to do now is to read them all, then choose your favourite drabble and your least favourite. You are allowed to vote for yourself. However, if I discover that anyone has voted multiple times, then you will be disqualified and ALL POINTS FORFEIT. You'll also have to put up with the scorn of a barmaid, and that ain't pretty, my friends, it ain't pretty at all!

And here are the drabbles. Please read and choose carefully. Take SPaG into consideration, as well as characterisation, canon spellings, and above all, whether you liked the drabble.

The Voting will close on Sunday 19th May 3PM BST.

Title:Silence in the MoonlightWord Count: 486Rating:1st-2cond yearsWarnings:Angst, Character Death to the extent that they are at a funeralA/N: None

He had not expected to see her here. She came, however, and, as he listened to her sincere condolences, which really consisted more of sympathizing looks than of words, it seemed very natural that she did. After all, they had been close for a while. They had shared much.

Percy remembered what it was like, dating Penelope. He remembered the steady comfort of sitting in the library over homework, and yet talking of something unrelated. No one would believe he was capable of it, but he was. Merlin, no one would believe, even now, that he was capable of kissing a girl. But he could do that, too.

Perhaps, it wasn't particularly romantic, but it suited them. They enjoyed patrol duty in the evenings, when it was just Percy and Penny, and the moonlight streaming through the windows as they strolled down a wide school hallway. They would talk then, in a way he could never talk to anyone else. He just told her of his wishes and anxieties, and some of them were very similar to hers.

He was numb when she was attacked by the Basilisk. He just couldn't appreciate the fact that this frozen body on the bed was Penny, stuck with a look of terror in her eyes. He had never felt that powerless before, and rarely since.

And then they graduated, and life happened. Now, as he stood in the crowd of mourners, he understood just how much of that was his fault. He had been so drunk on his phantom success, so proud, that he forgot everything else. Penny tried, but she couldn't stand up to the attractions of the office. So their conversations grew fewer and shorter, and then stopped. He knew to feel sorry for that now, but then those occasional drinks in the Cauldron seemed something of a nuisance.

Now, as he looked into her eyes, he felt that a chance to talk to her would be worth almost anything. She'd listen, and she'd see Percy the anxious boy, not Percy the Prefect, Percy the diligent student, or even Percy the Prat. Mind you, he admits to being the latter wholeheartedly. She'd listen and, somehow, having told her, he'd know what to do. He wanted the reassurance of her affection.

But that was no longer possible. Percy had heard, through an untold chain of mutual acquaintances, that she was seeing someone, and that they felt pretty strongly about each other, and that he contemplated proposing. Percy just couldn't ruin that. He loved Penny as much as he could love a girl, he thought, and he wanted her to be happy. But sometimes, on moonlit nights, he still wished for dark, empty corridors, and mullioned windows, and quiet whispers. But they are all gone, swept away by war and ambition, and only silence remains. So he thanks her, and silently wishes her joy. Silence is all he has.

The castle was quiet at this late hour of the evening. Even though patrolling the halls at night was a lonely job, Percy Weasley didn’t mind doing it. He was only getting used to being a Prefect, but he liked the silence and the peace this part of his duties procured him. It left him plenty of time to think, to analyse his environment and to revise some parts of his latest classes.

He turned a corner with the intention to go wander near the library when he spotted light at the end of the corridor. He lowered his wand to get a better look at who was coming toward him and distinguished a human shape. And then, he saw a Prefect badge glimmer in the dark. Ah, a compatriot, he thought. He opened his mouth to call to the person, but they beat him to it.

“Hey, Percy!” a feminine voice said cheerfully.

He recognised her instantly. Penelope Clearwater. Fifth year, Ravenclaw. That was basic information he would know about a fellow classmate. But his mind had already started in another direction, to more pertinent information for him. How her long, curly hair looked so soft, how her pretty eyes seemed to glow at the light of her wand, how she looked so… perfect. He had first spotted her in his fourth year in the library, studying, looking so serious, but so beautiful. Since that day, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. But that was a secret. He couldn’t tell her. Oh no, he couldn’t, he was way too shy…

“Percy? Are you okay?”

He looked up at her, realising in horror he hadn’t responded to her, too absorbed in his thoughts.

“F-fine,” he stuttered. How long had he been standing there like that? He needed to get out of here.

“Just fine. I… I… I’d better go make a quick check near the library,” he added, trying to regain his composure and to get out of this embarrassing situation. He turned around abruptly and started to leave, almost running.

“All right. I’ll see you around, I guess.” Penelope said, amusement in her voice.

Percy stopped in his tracks and turned back to her, but she had already left. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I’ll see you, she said,” he murmured, then smiled. Maybe next time, he would gather up the courage to really talk to her.

***********************

Title: On Stress and SpellingWord Count: 498Rating: 1st-2nd yearsWarnings: very minor languageA/N: I know Percy might be a little too cute in this, but he also teases her about not being able to spell. I also think he would have loosened up a bit after the battle (and Fred), so I tried to take that into account, and as a result I got him being insanely cute. Just thought I should justify that bit. Also, good luck to everyone in the brawl.

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing awake?” Percy slurred, and I snapped my head up from the parchment. I had to finish this article tonight.

“Deadline,” I grunted, returning to writing, but it was honestly just a mess of scribbles and letters failing to form words. I was frustrated; I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t figure out how to. Why did I think being a journalist was a good idea?

“Do you want me to help? I could write it out for you,” he offered, wrapping his arms around my waist. This is what Percy always did, and he didn’t understand why I could never accept help. He was so intelligent, and would have it done in minutes, but I had to do this by myself. I had to prove I could write.

“I’ll finish it up,” I said distractedly, before crumpling the parchment in my hand and letting it join its predecessors around the wastepaper basket.

“Love, ‘disillusion’ is spelt with two l’s,” he said, pointing to a word. “What is this about again?” Percy continued to point out all of the spelling errors, and I felt anger mixed with stress.

“I know, all right? I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, but it’s due tomorrow and I have to finish it,” I snapped.

“I’m just trying to help. I know you want it to be your work, but I can just write down what you say,” he replied patiently.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I didn’t know if it was caffeine or stress, but I had enough. Percy couldn’t just waltz in and show me up at my own job. “I don’t care if I can’t spell or if this isn’t English. It’s my job and I need to do it. You have your own fancy work and I can’t have you do mine, too, even though love working, which I think is crazy. I have to do this on my own. I have to prove I'm not stupid.”

“You are not stupid. You’re actually quite intelligent, and no one’s perfect. But we’re supposed to help each other. You remind me how much of a pompous arse I am, so I should get to help you spell.”

“That logic is illogical,” I moaned, but let him leave a trail of kisses down my neck. “Fine. Let’s just finish the bloody thing.” As his lips met the back of my ear, I jumped a little. “We need to work,” I said, laughing.

“I know. I’m buying you a spellchecking quill tomorrow, though.” Percy then picked me up bridal-style before unceremoniously dumping me on the sofa. “Sleep. I’ll translate this into English.”

“I love you,” I blurted out. Percy just kissed my forehead.

“I know. Now shush,” he replied, smiling as he grazed his lips on mine. As soon as he turned to my work, though, he started laughing.

“Since when is ‘symbol’ spelt with an ‘i’, Audrey?”

****************************

Title: SomersaultsWord Count: 499 according to OpenOfficeRating: 1st-2nd yearsWarnings: NoneA/N: I'm surprised by just how much I managed to write for this - I was dreading it when I first read the prompt! But here you go, a heavily cut down version of my drabble.

Percy’s stomach was somersaulting in excitement as he took his seat in the Prefect Compartment. He had finally made it; he was finally at his first ever Prefect meeting. This was the moment his entire school career had been leading up to. Of course, this was just the start. Beyond this meeting were many more just like it, eventually leading up to the one that he would be leading as Head Boy. He felt a warm glow inside him as he thought about himself receiving a letter with the confirmation that he was Head Boy - he would make his family proud. Not to mention his plans for beyond school. He would, of course, apply to work at the Ministry of Magic - all respectable wizards do - and, maybe someday, he would be Minister of Magic.

With a smile on his face, he watched with mild curiosity as the compartment began to fill as his fellow Prefects arrived either by themselves or in pairs, and Percy watching with mild interest to see who he would be working with over the next few years.

None of the Prefects caught Percy’s attention, none but one. She was a Ravenclaw student with long, curly hair and Percy felt his heart beat speed up although he couldn’t think why. She was pretty, yes, but then many girls at Hogwarts were, so why was she different. He thought of the times he had seen her in the library, often in deep concentration as she worked on various essays, occasionally looking up to laugh at whatever her friends were doing. She always smiled at him once she noticed he was looking at her, even when he hadn't realised he had been. He was brought out of his thoughts as the schedule for Prefect duties were passed around. With a start, he realised that he would be patrolling with the Ravenclaw girl. Penelope, he thought, what a lovely name.

*

The next few months passed in a blur. Percy couldn’t think why his stomach somersaulted - much as it had been the day of the first Prefect meeting - every time he walked to meet Penelope for their weekly patrols. It wasn’t until much later that he realised it was because he liked her. It had taken all of his courage to tell her this, and, much to his surprise, she responded by placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

They had met in secret after that, finding every opportunity they could to meet. Percy felt a rush of excitement every time he made his way to whichever unused classroom they were meeting in at that time. Things were so easy with her. They could talk for hours and never run out of things to say; they made each other laugh and smile; they were happy together. For the first time in his life, Percy had something else to focus on other than school. For the first time in his life, Percy was in love.

Percy was never one to put up with foolishness, despite having lived with five brothers and one sister who all thrived on being foolish and silly. He stuck strictly to the rules, and prided himself on being the top of his class. Just being Head Boy was enough to prove that he was smart and disciplined.

So when Percy was intently listening to a Transfiguration lecture and found himself gazing off to the desk to his right, he scolded himself silently. Tomfoolery didn't have its place when a difficult subject was being taught.

"When it comes to changing much larger inanimate items into organic matter, there requires a certain flick of the wrist-"

McGonagall's crisp voice rang out over the class, yet somehow, it seemed so far away, lost in some distant tunnel as Percy watched the desk's occupant. Her slim fingers were scurrying over the parchment with a quickness reminiscent of his own note-taking skills. Dark curly hair cascaded past her rosy cheeks, and he found himself following the curve of her nose that ended in a slight upturn. An urge overtook him to sweep her off her chair and carry her to his bedroom...

Shaking his head, Percy realized that he had just missed half the lecture. Now he didn't have any notes to study from. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. Apparently he wasn't as disciplined as he thought.

There was a scratching of chairs on the floor and students were starting to file out.

Great, Percy thought. He watched the girl gather up her notes.

Maybe she will lend me them? Percy wondered, hope blossoming in his heart. And maybe she wouldn't mind talking to him about it...

Merlin, he didn't even know her name! He knew she was a Ravenclaw, but that was about it.

He pursed his lips in distress. How was it that he had fallen into the trap of foolishness? And was it possible that part of him actually wanted to just give in to this and throw everything else out the window? It seemed he would either have to let this be or else give in to the temptation.

He fidgeted with his quill as he watched her walk out the door. Some of her friends shouted to her, and he thought they had called her, "Addie." She had a radiant smile as she linked arms with her group. Something about the way her eyes sparkled tugged at Percy's heart.

Bloody hell!

He knew he was going to fold to temptation.

*********************

Title: Daring to HopeWord Count: 283Rating: ickle firstiesWarnings: DH spoilers (if that can even be considered a warning anymore)A/N: Ever wonder why Percy kept working at the Ministry under Voldemort? I did.

Percy hunched over his desk as Minister Thicknesse stalked past. Percy knew it was foolish, dangerous even, to stay. But he didn't know where Penny was or if she was still alive. Continuing to work for the Ministry meant that he could access the Muggle-Born Registration Commission files. Every day Percy looked for information on Penny, and every day he was both delighted and disheartened by the lack of information on her. But no news was good news, right?

Before the Ministry fell, Percy could tell what was coming, and the first thing he did was owl Penny. They'd been together since their sixth year at Hogwarts, and even when he turned his back on his family, she stayed. He couldn't let Death Eaters find her, so he warned her to run. She did. And now he didn't know where she'd gone.

Then, one day, there it was: a small note to the Minister that a group of snatchers had found Penelope Clearwater running thought the woods with two boys, one of whom was Percy's brother Ron. His heart leapt. Penny was with Ron! Then he saw the bottom of the note: 'Potter suspected in company, all brought to Malfoy Manor.' If the snatchers suspected Harry was with Ron, then Percy knew it couldn't be Penny at all.

For the last few years Penny was all he had. She kept him in check and helped him find his way as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned. Penny made Percy realize just how dangerous his desire for power was. But now she was gone, and though he wasn't daring enough to do much, he was daring enough to hope she was okay.

Percy twirled the amber liquor in his glass for what seemed like the thousandth time, and thought to himself, today is the day I will speak to her. The “her” in question was a petite brunette with large gray eyes who sat alone in a small booth tucked away in the far corner of the pub he was in.

Percy had had his eyes on her ever since he had accidentally run into her at the Ministry months before. She had been neck deep in paperwork, and frazzled by the workload, but the moment his eyes touched hers, he knew he had to know her. Maybe it was the way the light shone off her hair, or the intelligence that sparkled out of her eyes, but to him she was as lovely as a freshly bloomed rose after a spring rain.

From that moment on, Percy attempted to work up the courage to speak with her, but every time he tried the words would stick in his throat, and his heart would patter wildly in his chest. He would then analyze which words to use in his situation, and then deemed them all wrong. Doubt would then creep into his mind, and the rampant fear of rejection would seize him in a cold grip. In the end, his cowardice always overcame him.

But today was different. Today he would have the courage to speak with her because today was the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and, most importantly, of Fred’s death. George always celebrated this day with some wild demonstration of one of his new inventions, which usually ended up exploding, and his parents would spend a quiet day at Fred’s grave.

Percy had his own way of celebrating his brother’s life. He emulated the best part of his brother, which was his courage. It was the least he could do to honor Fred’s memory. Every year on this very day, Percy would do something completely uncharacteristic of himself, but something he was sure his brother would have smiled at. It was the one time of the year he accepted a little rule breaking. This year, as he stared across the room at the girl he admired, he decided he would finally talk to her.

Percy stood with a fire in his gut he was not used to feeling. It burned away all of his doubts and fears. He could feel the conflagration of courage roll throughout his body, and Percy knew that Fred would have been proud. He strode over to her just as he imagined Fred would have.

“Hello, I’m Percy Weasley,” he said, as he came to a stop at her table, and offered out his hand. “I work with you at the Ministry.”

Her dainty soft hand took a hold of his as she answered, “I know who you are. I’m Audrey. It’s nice to finally meet you. Would you like to sit down?”

I'll be back from Italy next week. It's been so nice to receive your letters! Your research and knowledge of Italian wizard history were very edifying (even my father said so). I almost felt as if I didn't miss you after all.

But I do miss you. I hadn't realized how much I depended on your company at Hogwarts until our separation, and I find myself counting the days until I return home, in hopes that perhaps we will see each other soon!

We needn't wait until school starts to meet. You're on the Floo network, aren't you? I'd love to come to your house for dinner and meet some more of the famous Weasleys.

Got to go! Pizza for dinner!
Penny

P.S.: Congratulations on your O.W.L.s! Twelve is very impressive. That will look good on your CV.

Dear Penny,

I look forward to seeing you, but perhaps it's not the best idea for you to come to my home. The Weasleys may be famous, but also infamous in certain ways. I love them, but I'm not sure I want you to have to deal with us en masse just yet. I'm not sure I want to deal with them meeting you either!

I am not implying that I'm embarrassed by my family, necessarily, simply that they would probably embarrass me.

Can we come to some other arrangement? I agree that waiting until school starts isn't necessary.

Yours,
Percy

Dear Percy,

You're right. Your family may embarrass both of us by asking questions neither of us have the answers to yet. We've had a great correspondence this summer, but I notice that you haven't mentioned what happened right before you asked for my address to write me.

(I haven't mentioned it either, until now. The tiramisu must be going to my head.)

You kissed me.

I've thought many times about that moment this summer, wondering why you never said anything. Perhaps you were waiting for me to say something? Well, here goes.

I wouldn't mind that happening again.

I like you.

I want to see you again. I'm only in Italy a few more days (I hope you've been counting too).

Sincerely,
Penny

Dear Penny,

Please come meet me at Diagon Alley. I'm sure I can sneak away from my family long enough to make the following clear:

-I've missed you
-I'm sorry for never mentioning kissing you
-I've relived the moment many times this summer as well
-I'm more than a little interested in a reprise
-I like you very much

I did not think that I was going to be the sort to develop a “crush” on someone. I imagined, rather, a spark between the two of us that led to me walking over the second that it happened and speaking to them quite rationally. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I remembered Penelope clearly: she, however, had approached me rather than I her and I did not know what it felt like to have to be the person who began the conversation that might (or might not, and I was becoming thoroughly convinced of the latter). I had to start the conversation with Aubrey.

She was not the sort of girl who you noticed the second that you walked into the room. She did not have forever legs or long blonde hair and she wasn’t the smallest size in the room. She wasn’t the girl that you noticed when you walked into the room, but she was certainly the one you would remember for days, even weeks afterward, until you saw her again.

She was on my work floor and hadn’t been for very long. She hated the color yellow and (unlike anyone I had ever met) had desperately wanted to be a Slytherin and wouldn’t drink butterbeer and liked going out for firewhiskey at the Hog’s Head and getting drunk and coming home and falling asleep immediately afterwards. In all of this, she was the complete opposite to me, and I still do not know why I found it so entirely intriguing.

I could not stop thinking about the girl who hated yellow and wanted to be a Slytherin. I could not stop imagining the day where I would casually talk to her and we would fall in love like everything I (or my mother) had ever read; I could not contemplate the times we would spend with each other.

But I could not, for everything else that I had done, work up the courage to speak to her until it was nearly too late for anything. It took Aubrey smiling shyly at someone (I didn’t know who – I thought possibly some ridiculous Hufflepuff from the year below me?) and not smiling at me for days for me to walk up to her and ask if she wanted to go for a firewhiskey later, even though I hated the drink.

*

Later, Aubrey told me it was the fact that I asked for firewhiskey – the fact that I knew enough about her, the fact that I cared enough, even though I didn’t like the alcohol myself at all – that made her want to see me again.

****************************

Title: SecretsWord Count: 321Rating: 1st-2nd YearsWarnings: NoneA/N: This prompt was so hard, but it was fun!

Percy doesn't know why, but he didn't want his family knowing about Penelope. He isn't ashamed of her. How could he be? She's beautiful and smart and respectable, everything a young woman should be. Perhaps he doesn't want the teasing that was sure to arise if the twins found out or the fact that his mother, who means well, he knows, will want to know everything about her.

Or maybe it's because, after growing up with hand-me-downs and having to share everything, he is happy to finally have something that is all his own.

So Percy and Penelope sneak around like it's some conspiracy, like being caught together would create a disaster. Penelope doesn't seem to mind. They meet in quiet corridors and empty classrooms, places where students don't frequent. Places where privacy isn't hard to find.

They talk about school, their futures, their goals, and ponder the meaning behind the school attacks. They share smiles and soft kisses the slowly turn into long snogs and passion.

When Ginny walks in on them, his hand is tangled in her curly hair and his lips are on hers. He hears the door open and turns to the noise. When he sees his sister there, frozen with shock, he can't help but feel embarrassed. Ginny should have never had to see that. They lock eyes, and Ginny turns and walks out the door.

"I'll be right back," Percy whispers.

He slips out of the door and tracks down Ginny. When she looks at him, he can't help but feel like she's trying to hold back a smile.

The rumours began like many rumours do: with a break-up. Oliver never really paid attention to rumours, unless they involved one of his players, and why should he? They only served as a distraction from valuable time when he could be drawing up tactical charts or lecturing his team on the importance of a good, hearty pre-match breakfast.

The gist of it was that Percy Weasley and Penelope Clearwater had broken up, not only because he was a giant arse about Ravenclaw losing to Gryffindor, but because he played for another team altogether. Oliver knew Percy—the stiff bloke with no sense of humour—but perhaps his awkwardly uptight dorm mate had a perfectly good reason for being awkwardly uptight.

Like all rumours, certain events kept the flames of gossip sparking. When Percy began tutoring none other than that foul ignoramus, Marcus Flint, those flames became a raging inferno. And even though Oliver didn’t have the time or inclination to take part in such dumb tattle, he couldn’t really avoid it when his study in the library happened to coincide with Flint and Percy’s tutorial sessions.

“Right, Weasel. You and me, neither of us want to be here, and the only reason we’re putting ourselves through this is because Flitwick demands it.” Flint sat back in his chair, robes mussed and tie askew. He crossed his arms with a scowl, glaring at Percy. “He told me you could get me through my N.E.W.T.s so let’s see this Weasley magic, and we can both get out of here.”

Percy shuffled in his chair, a flush of red rising on the back of his neck.

“It’s ‘you and I’, Flint. Open your book to page thirty.”

They met every Wednesday at seven. Flint would grunt, Percy would flush and titter, and eventually they would manage to get some work done.

“This isn’t bloody good enough, Weasley! You’re supposed to help me pass. Does this look like an A to you?”

“It looks like a P, actually, which stands for Poor.”

“Oh really? Doesn’t it stand for the porcupine quills I’d like to shove up your—”

They studied in silence, they talked. Once, they even laughed. Percy taught and Flint learned. And even when they weren’t arguing, Oliver began to enjoy the sound of their quiet banter, and one voice in particular.

After the sessions he would wait for Flint to leave before approaching Percy.

“You know what the rumours are, Perce?” he’d say, turning to make sure they weren’t disturbed.

“I don’t have time for such trivial matters. The Head Boy must remain dignified, sensible—”

Oliver thumped him with a book.

“That is an improper use of a book, Wood.”

“I’ll show you improper use, Weasley.”

Their hands would entwine, a flush would rise on the back of Percy’s neck.

Oliver never really paid attention to rumours, and why should he when they were the perfect cover for a secret of his own?

The girls had gotten a lot prettier over the summer, Percy noticed during the first days of his third year. More graceful, more animated, more interesting in every respect. He was fascinated to watch them out of the corner of his eye during active classes like Potions, appreciating the fluid motions of their hands and arms as they cut their ingredients, the intent looks on their faces as they poured liquids into measuring cylinders, their precise, careful movements as they picked up tiny weights with their fingertips and placed them lightly on the scales.

The Gryffindors had Potions class with the Ravenclaw, and Percy found himself studying the Ravenclaw girls as if meeting them for the first time. His Gryffindor classmates were well known from long hours spent with them in the House common room, but the Ravenclaw girls were new possibilities. He knew most of their names.

Penelope Clearwater was closest to him; he could see her very well. When she bent over her work, her blond hair, wavy at the tips, fell forward and partly obscured her face. He wondered vaguely whether it might accidently catch fire, but he was glad she had not pulled it tightly back from her face and tied it with a string at the nape of her neck. She had rolled up the sleeves of her robes and pinned them with safety pins so that her slender wrists and forearms were exposed. Percy tore his eyes from her and focused on his own work again; he could never impress her if he failed to complete his own potion, or worse, created some unsightly, stinking mess.

What kind of guy would she like, he wondered. Could I be that kind of guy? He wished he were like his brother Bill -- tall, handsome, completely self-confident. Bill had been Prefect and then Head Boy, but more importantly he never worried about what anyone thought of him. He was perfectly at ease with people of all ages. He could have had any girl he wanted, but he was so laid back that he seemed not to care. I should have paid more attention to how he did it, Percy thought.

Then there was Charlie, still in school in his sixth year. Charlie the remarkable athlete, the Quidditch captain. Girls loved him too. Everyone in school knew Charlie, always cheerful and laughing. That's not me either, Percy thought.

He glanced at Penelope for another brief instant. She was talking in low tones to her Potions partner.

I want her to see the real me. But I don't know what that is. All I know is that I'm not Bill and I'm not Charlie. I'm not ever a joker like Fred or George....

Oh, no, Fred and George. I forgot about them. Merlin, let them not throw stinks bombs in the corridors. She'd never go out with me then. The brother of the goofballs.

The knot of sadness she’d been carrying around in her belly for weeks swelled a little, but Penny tried to smile. “It’s really nice, Percy.” It wasn’t a lie. His new flat was upscale and modern, but small. She’d been foolish to think he might choose a place with room to grow.

“It’s close to work.”

She bit the inside of her lip to keep quiet.

“Sorry, I can’t stay.” He dropped some papers into his briefcase. “Fudge needs me at the office.”

Penny felt the air go out of her. “Tonight? Percy, it’s nearly nine, and you’ve been working non-stop for days.” She tried to understand. A hundred times, she’d tried. This was what came from loving a brilliant, ambitious boy determined to climb the political ladder. But it had become more than just the long hours. She harbored an increasing anxiety about the Ministry, and was honestly afraid for Percy.

The locks on his briefcase snapped shut.

“What did your parents say?” The words popped out without her permission.

Percy stopped.

She couldn’t help it. Something desperate inside her refused to let him leave this time. He’d been slipping away for weeks. “Were they excited about the promotion?”

“No.” His jaw was a hard line. “They think I’m being used,” he spat. But she saw something pass over his face… a flinch of honest pain, a fragment of doubt. It disappeared immediately, but the image swung before Penny like a rope lowered into a deep pit.

She seized it, moving to him and positioning herself in his arms. “Percy, they love you.” Her hands were on his neck, in his hair. “They’re good people. They want what’s best for you.” She kissed him before he could object and was surprised when he responded, lifting her onto her toes.

Joy flooded through her. He was still in there—her Percy, the one who had shared all her firsts. She remembered his perfect awkwardness, fumbling around in empty classrooms at Hogwarts. He’d been so deliciously conflicted then, violating the rules he was meant to enforce. She’d missed that struggle--these days he was all blind obedience.

When they parted, she watched him. “We’re just worried about you.”

Immediately, his arms went slack “We?” He gave her a hard, disapproving look. “Merlin, Penny.”

He was lost, she knew, tangled in a web of work, responsibility, and the company of powerful, dangerous wizards. She couldn’t bear it. “Yes, okay? I’m worried! Cedric was murdered, Percy, and Fudge won’t even acknowledge—“

“The Minister,” he cut her off, “is the one holding things together right now.”

“Percy, please...”

“No.”

And then, just like that, he left her there.

She sucked in a shuddery breath, reached into her pocket, and found her key to Percy’s new place. Tears blurred the brass edges as she laid it on the table and walked out.

Inexplicably, it was over, and the ache in her chest confirmed the impossible: she’d lost Percy to Cornelius Fudge.

Percy hated clearing up after office parties. Without fail, there would be vomit and wine stains in the carpet, and they were a pain to deal with. But someone had to do it, and as host, he assumed it was his responsibility.

He’d started hosting these parties for his staff and colleagues the Christmas after the Battle – everyone grieved the first Christmas without brothers, sisters, parents, friends. Percy grieved too, overwhelmingly guilty, but he figured that everyone would need some distraction.

Even now, five years later, people used these parties to escape. Percy certainly did. He didn’t drink, but he loved to watch people dancing, without inhibitions. It was such a contrast to watching his family try not to bring up Fred.

Percy was trying to shift the sofa back into its usual place when he heard heavy breathing coming from the armchair. As he approached, the girl shivered in her little red dress; her empty wine glass slipped from her hand, rolling over the carpet. Percy stooped to pick it up and placed it on the table. The sleeping girl gave a snuffly snore, and Percy turned to look at her face. She was really quite pretty, her forehead smooth in sleep, but her tumbling hair could not hide her scars. Percy recognised her: Lavender Brown, Ron’s ex-girlfriend. He brushed a lock of hair out of the eyes and tucked it neatly behind her ear. He smiled.

“The cleaning can wait,” he muttered. “Let’s get you home.”

Sweeping her up clumsily into his arms, he carried her to his car and laid her on the back seat. He began to drive to her flat – he’d been there before with Bill a few times. Percy switched on the radio to some mournful classical music. So what if they got lost?

The car drew up in front of the apartment building a short while later. He fumbled in her clutch for a key, then lifted her out of the car and struggled up the stair to the tenth floor.

Once inside, Percy found her bedroom and placed her gently on the mattress. Would it be disrespectful to change her into nightclothes? Her thighs, her stomach, exposed – he eased her dress over her head and folded it neatly, placing it under her pillow, where he found a simple white shift. He paused. His fingers wanted to dance along her pale belly, trace the contours of her smooth thighs. He could not. Instead, he pulled the cotton nightdress over her head, and ticking the covers up to her chin he kissed her softly on the forehead.

Then Percy left, locking the door behind him and posting the key through the letter box. When he returned home to resume his cleaning, he could not help but think of her. Perhaps Bill was right: he did need some love in his life.

Lavender awoke the next morning in her own bed, disorientated, with a splitting headache and a single red hair on her pillow.

************************************************

Title: SunsetWord Count: 497Rating: 1st-2ndWarnings: None

One day, when we were twelve, Clara brought me down to the lake to look at a sunset.

At the time, I had thought it a bit silly that she wanted me to come with her - I had seen them plenty of times, I thought.

But then she started to tell me about it.

She said that her father had always taken her out to see sunsets when she was a child, and he told her that they were the way people from heaven could talk to us.

Sunsets, Clara assured me, were places where the barrier between heaven and earth had grown thin. And before they were fixed, at night, all the light and the perfect colours from heaven leaked through onto earth. It was their way of smiling at us, of saying they were happy.

She then said when sunsets had pink in them, that she thought the purple was her mother. She was certain. Her mother had loved pink, so pink sunsets were her mother saying goodnight to her.

Clara loved purple.

I thought her story was silly at first, but now I go outside and watch sunsets every night and look for her. I believe that she's there.

Maybe that's because I have nothing else to hang on to.

The last sentence had tumbled from Percy's pen before he knew it, and he immediately scratched it out.

Saying that wouldn't be right.

He could let that sentence hang, he thought as his eyes started to burn. It's fine as it is.

Writing a eulogy was more difficult than Percy had ever imagined. Worse than anything he had ever had to write for work. He was fine when it was just facts, but when he had to talk about feelings he felt like he was stripping his clothes off.

Maybe this was why it had taken until she was dying for him to tell her how he felt.

The I-love-you’s had been rushed, both trying to fit years of words into the minutes they had left together. When he kissed her he could feel tears on her cheeks. Holding her hand and waiting was worst – growing more and more sure as time passed that she would not get to leave the castle with him.

But still, he waited. Talked quietly to her until her pulse slowed and then faded to nothing.

The last thing she said was for him to look up.

The sunrise was a brilliant pink.

Clara would have written a perfect eulogy. It almost made him angry that she wasn’t there.

Percy looked out the window, desperate to think of something else, anything else, and tears came to his eyes.

The sunset was glorious. His chest hurt when he thought of how much Clara would have loved it.

Percy watched as the sky turned to purple and little stars popped into visibility one by one.

AGHHHH!!!!! There’s a tie at the bottom, so I can’t definitively announce the results. Whilst Aisle Gossip is the clear winner and Daring To Hope has taken the first leaving place , there is a three way tie for the second leaving spot, between On Stress and Spelling, Epistolary, and Firewhiskey Therefore, I have set up another poll, and ask you to vote again for your least favourite drabble. This poll will close on Monday 20th May, 3pm GMT.

EDIT: Make that 4PM BST as I've just realised I have to be somewhere else at 3PM.

Title: On Stress and SpellingWord Count: 498Rating: 1st-2nd yearsWarnings: very minor languageA/N: I know Percy might be a little too cute in this, but he also teases her about not being able to spell. I also think he would have loosened up a bit after the battle (and Fred), so I tried to take that into account, and as a result I got him being insanely cute. Just thought I should justify that bit. Also, good luck to everyone in the brawl.

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing awake?” Percy slurred, and I snapped my head up from the parchment. I had to finish this article tonight.

“Deadline,” I grunted, returning to writing, but it was honestly just a mess of scribbles and letters failing to form words. I was frustrated; I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t figure out how to. Why did I think being a journalist was a good idea?

“Do you want me to help? I could write it out for you,” he offered, wrapping his arms around my waist. This is what Percy always did, and he didn’t understand why I could never accept help. He was so intelligent, and would have it done in minutes, but I had to do this by myself. I had to prove I could write.

“I’ll finish it up,” I said distractedly, before crumpling the parchment in my hand and letting it join its predecessors around the wastepaper basket.

“Love, ‘disillusion’ is spelt with two l’s,” he said, pointing to a word. “What is this about again?” Percy continued to point out all of the spelling errors, and I felt anger mixed with stress.

“I know, all right? I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, but it’s due tomorrow and I have to finish it,” I snapped.

“I’m just trying to help. I know you want it to be your work, but I can just write down what you say,” he replied patiently.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I didn’t know if it was caffeine or stress, but I had enough. Percy couldn’t just waltz in and show me up at my own job. “I don’t care if I can’t spell or if this isn’t English. It’s my job and I need to do it. You have your own fancy work and I can’t have you do mine, too, even though love working, which I think is crazy. I have to do this on my own. I have to prove I'm not stupid.”

“You are not stupid. You’re actually quite intelligent, and no one’s perfect. But we’re supposed to help each other. You remind me how much of a pompous arse I am, so I should get to help you spell.”

“That logic is illogical,” I moaned, but let him leave a trail of kisses down my neck. “Fine. Let’s just finish the bloody thing.” As his lips met the back of my ear, I jumped a little. “We need to work,” I said, laughing.

“I know. I’m buying you a spellchecking quill tomorrow, though.” Percy then picked me up bridal-style before unceremoniously dumping me on the sofa. “Sleep. I’ll translate this into English.”

“I love you,” I blurted out. Percy just kissed my forehead.

“I know. Now shush,” he replied, smiling as he grazed his lips on mine. As soon as he turned to my work, though, he started laughing.

I'll be back from Italy next week. It's been so nice to receive your letters! Your research and knowledge of Italian wizard history were very edifying (even my father said so). I almost felt as if I didn't miss you after all.

But I do miss you. I hadn't realized how much I depended on your company at Hogwarts until our separation, and I find myself counting the days until I return home, in hopes that perhaps we will see each other soon!

We needn't wait until school starts to meet. You're on the Floo network, aren't you? I'd love to come to your house for dinner and meet some more of the famous Weasleys.

Got to go! Pizza for dinner!
Penny

P.S.: Congratulations on your O.W.L.s! Twelve is very impressive. That will look good on your CV.

Dear Penny,

I look forward to seeing you, but perhaps it's not the best idea for you to come to my home. The Weasleys may be famous, but also infamous in certain ways. I love them, but I'm not sure I want you to have to deal with us en masse just yet. I'm not sure I want to deal with them meeting you either!

I am not implying that I'm embarrassed by my family, necessarily, simply that they would probably embarrass me.

Can we come to some other arrangement? I agree that waiting until school starts isn't necessary.

Yours,
Percy

Dear Percy,

You're right. Your family may embarrass both of us by asking questions neither of us have the answers to yet. We've had a great correspondence this summer, but I notice that you haven't mentioned what happened right before you asked for my address to write me.

(I haven't mentioned it either, until now. The tiramisu must be going to my head.)

You kissed me.

I've thought many times about that moment this summer, wondering why you never said anything. Perhaps you were waiting for me to say something? Well, here goes.

I wouldn't mind that happening again.

I like you.

I want to see you again. I'm only in Italy a few more days (I hope you've been counting too).

Sincerely,
Penny

Dear Penny,

Please come meet me at Diagon Alley. I'm sure I can sneak away from my family long enough to make the following clear:

-I've missed you
-I'm sorry for never mentioning kissing you
-I've relived the moment many times this summer as well
-I'm more than a little interested in a reprise
-I like you very much

I did not think that I was going to be the sort to develop a “crush” on someone. I imagined, rather, a spark between the two of us that led to me walking over the second that it happened and speaking to them quite rationally. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I remembered Penelope clearly: she, however, had approached me rather than I her and I did not know what it felt like to have to be the person who began the conversation that might (or might not, and I was becoming thoroughly convinced of the latter). I had to start the conversation with Aubrey.

She was not the sort of girl who you noticed the second that you walked into the room. She did not have forever legs or long blonde hair and she wasn’t the smallest size in the room. She wasn’t the girl that you noticed when you walked into the room, but she was certainly the one you would remember for days, even weeks afterward, until you saw her again.

She was on my work floor and hadn’t been for very long. She hated the color yellow and (unlike anyone I had ever met) had desperately wanted to be a Slytherin and wouldn’t drink butterbeer and liked going out for firewhiskey at the Hog’s Head and getting drunk and coming home and falling asleep immediately afterwards. In all of this, she was the complete opposite to me, and I still do not know why I found it so entirely intriguing.

I could not stop thinking about the girl who hated yellow and wanted to be a Slytherin. I could not stop imagining the day where I would casually talk to her and we would fall in love like everything I (or my mother) had ever read; I could not contemplate the times we would spend with each other.

But I could not, for everything else that I had done, work up the courage to speak to her until it was nearly too late for anything. It took Aubrey smiling shyly at someone (I didn’t know who – I thought possibly some ridiculous Hufflepuff from the year below me?) and not smiling at me for days for me to walk up to her and ask if she wanted to go for a firewhiskey later, even though I hated the drink.

*

Later, Aubrey told me it was the fact that I asked for firewhiskey – the fact that I knew enough about her, the fact that I cared enough, even though I didn’t like the alcohol myself at all – that made her want to see me again.

****************************

For those of you that know you’re through, here is the prompt for this week.

Insurgence

There is a catch ... (there is often a catch, mes amies). You are not to set this drabble during that final year in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. You may use the Epilogue, but the time period July 1997 – to June 1998 is out.

Use this form for your entry and PM all drabbles to me (Equinox Chick) by 8 PM BST Thursday 23rd May.

So, this week we are saying goodbye to noblefate, Cinderella Angelina, and Padfoot113333. Let us squish them and give them 5 shiny points each for daring to brawl You will be missed.

But let us not, in our grief, forget the wondrousness that is that most slithery of Slytherins, Julia, the opaleye, who wrote the fabulous Aisle Horror. She takes 5 points for a stage win and proceeds onwards with the rest of you.

(so fearsome, infact, that we've had some more dropouts - sigh - but thank you for letting me know so I'm not hanging around waiting.)

Please read all the drabbles (there are ten), and vote for your favourite and least favourite. Choose carefully. Take into consideration not only the golden rules of SPaG, but also characterisation and whether you liked the drabble. I will repeat this. You may vote for your own drabble. I will allow that, but please do not try to vote twice. I will find out because I'm sneaky like that and have access to the databases of MI5, MI6, CIA, FBI, and Albus Dumbledore's Deluminator (you have no IDEA of the powers of that thing).

My family have been pure-bloods for Merlin knows how long. We have eliminated Squibs and Blood Traitors from our tree for that time. Some we have eliminated from our line entirely. I have tortured Muggles, killed Muggle-borns. All innocents. Their only crime was not being born a pure-blood. People say that Muggle-borns steal their magic from Squibs, but it’s not true. That’s just how magic works. It’s not fair, but we just have to live with it.

But what if we don’t? Andromeda is gone now, scorched from the tree, fled from the House. She does not regret her decision. She will not tolerate the discrimination of the man she loves. Perhaps we cannot change how magic works, but we can change how we feel about it.

I am no Sirius.

At eleven, I joined my brother at Hogwarts. But I did not see him often, and far less did I talk to him. He was marked with red, distinct from the family green, as a lone poppy in a field. And we treated him as the changed man he was.

He relished it. Perhaps her associated with them for a reason – Muggle-borns, Half-bloods, werewolves, Blood Traitors. Perhaps there was some motive, some purpose to him, that angering his family might change something. Now, he too is gone, blasted from the tree.

I am no rebel.

I am Black and green and silver and pure. But that does not mean I cannot fight. I will. You just won’t know.

Sirius trembled with suppressed rage. Taking the stairs two at a time, he threw himself into his room—the only space in this god-forsaken house he didn’t despise. He slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled, wanting to piss them off, yet knowing they wouldn’t be bothered.

You had to care to be bothered.

Sirius paced his room, trying to breathe. Next year, he would be of age, and he would leave. The promise of it was the only thing keeping him sane. Even so, it was becoming more and more difficult to stifle the restless passion that stirred in his chest. Their world was heating up, and his family was on the wrong side of things.

The Prophet had been the catalyst. There’d been a disappearance—a low-level Ministry worker whose name meant nothing to anyone in the Black household, but whose photograph had burned itself onto Sirius’ memory.

“Looks like our lot had a busy night,” his mother had commented.

Her words had bubbled and boiled inside Sirius. “Your lot, you mean.”

“Of course. You didn’t think I meant you, did you?”

It had been the sight of his brother, seemingly unconcerned, that had done him in. Regulus shared their family's pure-blood ideals, and Sirius often found his apparent apathy unbearable.

In his room, Sirius abruptly stopped pacing and began to laugh. Then, with his wand, he opened his trunk and sent his clothes and books flying into it.

Freedom wasn’t something to sit around and wait for, it was something to take, and fight for, if necessary. He hesitated at his bedroom door, hating to leave the things on his wall, the various images that had hung boldly in this house, never letting him forget who he really was. But he did leave them in the end, sealing each one with a Sticking Charm, a parting gift for his mother.

Walking away, he had only one regret: that Regulus would not follow.

********

The place was exactly as Kreacher had described.

The man fixed his eyes on the island, on the destiny that waited in the eerie silence of their crossing. He did not look at the water, not even once, for fear his courage would slip into its inky depth before he had a chance to turn the knife he’d come to turn.

When the potion touched his lips, the only sound was that of the elf sobbing, but by the last drop, the man’s cries easily overpowered those of the creature. The guilt and stain of his many sins rendered everything else meaningless, and Regulus collapsed under their crushing weight. Countless faces swam in his vision, but Sirius stood before them all, accusing him. He’d given up his brother for the Dark Lord; for such sins, Regulus knew, there was no forgiveness.

There was only one thing left--one act to offer penance for these crimes and quench his unbearable thirst and shame. He dragged himself toward it.

Hermione knelt at the foot of her bed, glanced hastily over her shoulder, and opened her trunk. Inside were her new snow boots, still in their cardboard box. She dumped the boots out of the box, placed the empty box on the floor, and quickly took a Galleon coin from her money sack and her scissors from her box of desk supplies. Then she closed the trunk again.

Working rapidly, she pulled apart the glued flaps of the box and its lid to make flat sheets of cardboard and slid them into her schoolbag with the scissors and the coin. Then she stood up, thankful that no one had come into the dormitory to watch all this. You couldn't be too careful.

In her schoolbag was a parchment on which she had copied a Charm from an Advanced Charms book in the library earlier that day. It was too risky to check the book out of the library. Hermione had watched enough detective shows on her parents' television during the summer to know that the slightest clue could be the undoing of a criminal. Suppose Madam Pince happened to mention at the dinner table in the Great Hall that the Granger girl was so studious that she had checked out a N.E.W.T. level Charms book even though she hadn't sat her O.W.L.s yet. Then suppose that Umbridge overheard that remark and hauled Hermione into her office to ask why. Could I think of a convincing lie in a moment? Hermione wondered. Probably not. Barely sixteen and already thinking like a criminal, Hermione reflected. These were dire times.

Staying awake in the common room that night was tedious, waiting for everyone to go to bed. I won't show this to Harry and Ron until I'm sure it works, Hermione thought. Dear Merlin, let it work. We can't afford the risk.

Finally alone, she took the box lid from her bag, laid it on the wooden table, placed the coin on the corner of the lid, and traced around it with a quill. Using scissors she carefully cut out the circular cardboard shape, laid it next to the coin, and Transfigured the cardboard disk into a fake Galleon.

So far so good. Now came the hard part. Referring to the parchment she had copied that afternoon, Hermione attempted to put a Protean Charm on the fake coin and tested it by changing the numbers on the real coin. After a few tries she was successful -- the fake coin changed also. Hurray!

With renewed energy she manufactured twenty-seven more fake Galleons, and one by one put Protean Charms on them. After the first few coins, she could get the Protean Charm every time. It was well after midnight when she finished.

I am so thankful this worked, Hermione thought. What we are doing is so dangerous. What will happen if we get caught? The slightest clue, an atypical conversation in the Great Hall...

Being a criminal was not easy.

****************************************

Title: Family be DamnedRatings/Warnings: 3rd-5th/mild languageWord Count: 499A/N: When writing this drabble, I decided to go with a more basic, open definition of the word "insurgence", which was "an act of rebellion; insurrection; revolt", instead of the full military definition. In all honesty though, as young adults, our families are the ones we rebel against the most.

"You can't be serious, Scorpius," Lucius Malfoy said over his tea.

"No, I'm joking," Scorpius answered sarcastically. He had hoped that by this time, his grandfather would have come to terms with his relationship with Lily.

"Scorpius," Draco warned from the other side of the table. "Show some respect."

"I thought it was just you being a rebellious teenager," Lucius said. "You're supposed to outgrow that."

"So you thought that I was dating Lily just to make you guys mad?" Scorpius was shocked and a little annoyed. "What kind of person do you think I am! You think I'd use a girl to stick it to my parents and then drop her?"

"So? That doesn't make her any less of a person! She's beautiful and smart and athletic. She's one of the kindest people you will ever meet. I could never pretend to fall for her and then dump her after I had made a splash. Besides, Mum and Dad didn't even really care!"

"Of course they didn't, they thought it was a phase!"

"Then why aren't they making a big deal about it now? They've known for weeks that I was thinking about asking her to marry me, and they have not said a single thing against it." Scorpius was quickly getting angrier. He couldn't believe his grandfather's prejudice towards Lily and her family.

"Draco," Lucius turned on his son. "You approved of this?"

"I don't think I could stop him if I tried," Draco answered. "I don't have anything against Potter."

"Nothing against Potter?" Lucius spluttered.

"I don't have to like him, Dad, but I don't hate him anymore. Besides, in today's society, having ties with Potter could be very beneficial."

Scorpius looked as his father in bewilderment. "Beneficial? Is that all this is to you?" He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Does it even matter that I love her? She's not a tie or a blood traitor or someone to be used!" Draco's voice had risen to a yell.

"Scorpius, settle down," Draco said.

"I will not settle down! I am going to marry Lily, and not because it's a good political move or because having ties to her family will advance us. I am doing it because I love her."

"Are you sure this isn't just you trying to be rebellious?" Lucius asked. "You don't want to tie yourself down right away."

Scorpius threw his tea cup against the wall. "I already told you it's not!" He grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair and put it on.

"We aren't done here!" Lucius said, standing up.

"No, I think we are," Scorpius replied, his voice back to normal tones. "I'm done with this crap. I don't care if you never talk to me for the rest of my life. I love her, and I'm going to marry her, family be damned!"

He slammed the door on his way out.

*******************************************

Title: It Started With A GameRatings/Warnings: 1st-2nd years; no warningsWord Count: 493A/N:

Do you remember Wizards and Trolls? That game we used to play? Molly was always the troll and we were the rebel fighters.

We were the hardened travellers of distant lands, chasing down the fiercest enemy imaginable. We were the soldiers, relishing the glory and honour of a battle won. We were the opposite of ordinary. We did not conform. We were heroes.

And when we became Aurors we told them, those who questioned such a difficult and harrowing career, that it started with a game.

The trolls are much bigger than Molly, now, although I don’t think they are quite as fierce. Our enemy takes more than just fake spells and sprints through the trees to quell. He is elusive. He is in control. We must stop Him.

That first battle, when I thought Mulciber had already killed me, I learned that bravery is not a kindness, but kindness is always brave. Marlene could have left me there and saved herself, but she saw my wounds, she came back for me. She even fixed them before Apparating us away. That was freedom and bravery. But it was also kindness.

I think, in the end, that is what we are fighting for.

Some mornings I wake, brother, and feel fear. Sometimes I want to tell our story without being in it. But those are the mornings when you look the most like Molly. Her eyes, your eyes, remind me of kindness. That is what makes me brave. That is what brings the revolution to my heart, and to my mouth, and to my hands.

There is war in us, brother, and a bravery. But bravery is not kindness—it is a weakness we cannot resist. It is a truth we must demand, and it is a life we must lead until the very end.

But always remember what we are fighting for. Remember our humanity.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my wand beside the parchment. Waiting. Ready. The night is cold, and I know that once we leave this warmth it might not ever return to our bones.

I am not sure whether you will ever read this, Gideon. Because if you do then that means that our kindness has been my end. I just hope that if that end ever comes, then you are not beside me, that you are reading this letter and that the wizards live on and the trolls do not. I love you, brother.

Do remember Wizards and Trolls? That game we used to play? Molly was always the troll but tonight she is the future we fight for, she and Arthur and their beautiful family are the light for which we must quell the darkness.

We must go back to those days, Gideon. We must be rebel fighters. We must be the opposite of ordinary. We must remember that kindness exists even in the darkest of hours.

The July heat lingered in a shimmering haze on the dirt road as it wound its way through the pockmarked countryside. A wizard named Jean stood by the side of the road, and waited.

Behind him the skeletal remains of a small town sat as a sad reminder of the times they were in. It was slowly being overrun with weeds, and suffocating under a life gutted silence. Jean remembered a time when this land had been peaceful, but that was before Grindelwald had taken over.

As the afternoon heat seeped into him, Jean wondered when or how his English contact would come. The English Ministry of Magic had been oddly silent the past month, especially after the news that the French Ministry of Magic had been driven underground by Grindelwald’s forces. The French magical populace was scattered and leaderless. Muggle-borns and Squibs were being rounded up, and taken to unknown locations never to be seen again. It had only been recently that contact with their English ally had started again.

Jean’s thoughts were interrupted by an odd, muffled rumble coming from the sky. He looked up expecting to see a Muggle warplane, but saw something quite different instead. Flying down towards him was a sleek black car. The car landed smoothly on the road ahead of him, and drove up to the waiting wizard.

Jean smiled as the car came to a stop, and its driver and passenger got out. He would have recognized the red hair of Septimus Weasley anywhere. His passenger, on the other hand, he had never seen before.

“Jean, I’m sorry we’ve not been in contact in awhile. There have been some internal problems in the English Ministry of Magic,” Septimus stated solemnly as he approached the Frenchman. “This is my partner, Marius Black. He has agreed to stay with your refugee camp as a liaison. I have also brought food supplies, medicinal herbs, and more,” Septimus finished as he pointed to the car behind him. This was welcome news. Their current food supply was about to run out, and they had no more healing potions or medicinal herbs.

“Where is the refugee camp?” Marius asked.

Jean pointed behind him as he answered, “This town used to be a magical town much like your own Hogsmeade, but it was decimated by Grindelwald a year ago. We’ve surrounded it with protective spells. It’s now one of our largest refugee, and defensive training camps in France. You’ve no idea how sorely we needed the supplies and help you’ve brought.”

“I will do what I can to help,” Marius responded. “Though I am only a Squib, I do know some Muggle hand-to-hand combat skills.”

His breath caught in his throat. It was here, he knew it. He knew it as surely as he knew his name, as surely as he knew anything in this world. The feeling of achieving what no one else had infused every crevice of his being. This was success in its purest form, and he had earned it through years of effort and dedication. He had done it.

A single finger slid down the cool glass, drawing an invisible line between the past and the present, between the lukewarm calm that was and the change that was about to start. The sense of power was headily sweet, pleasanter than Mudbloods' brandy or the best Firewhiskey. It was the mead of the strong, and, just now, he was the strongest in this school – and he would not stop there, either. He held the power to start the ultimate rebirth of wizarding civilization – the exact timing was up to him alone. Soon, they would all learn what he was really capable of.

For five long years, he had plotted and planned – and searched – ceaselessly, doggedly. He had been through what felt like the entire Hogwarts Library. Along the way, he gathered knowledge that many would envy, but it did not distract him from his task. Along the way, he gathered people he thought would fit – people with ideas that suited their tasks in his master plan. They did not distract him, either; however; they were tools, cogs in his machine that would change the world and place him at the pinnacle of power. Oh, yes, it would happen; one day, it would all happen. Today marked the first step.

The boy gazed into the mirror, ignoring his reflection. An onlooker would have thought he was trying to see through the glass. He chuckled. He knew perfectly well what lay beyond. No, he was looking into the future, the glorious future in which no one would dare to suspect him of deeds they called evil and he called experimentation. No one would call him odd, or scary, like the stupid little girls at the orphanage. He'd show them what was truly frightening, the pathetic little Mudbloods. They would remember the hanged rabbit and wish life were still that simple.

Today, Tom had found the goal of hs very first quest – the entrance to the seat of his power, the instrument of his very first ascent. With his dear fanged pet at his side, he would start a rebellion to shake the foundations of the world belonging to servile worms with no imagination. He'd show them all – and the Transfiguration teacher would be the first to learn of his mistake. He'll remember the lecture he saw fit to deliver to the greatest rebel the world would ever see.

Sirius Black was throwing things into a huge bag that lay open on his bed, without really paying attention to what he was packing. He just wanted to leave this house as fast as he could.

This time, it had gone too far. His mother had gone too far. He was enjoying a sunny afternoon in Diagon Alley with Jody, a Muggle-born who was at school with him, when she had shown up with his cousin Bellatrix. Clearly, she was the one who had told his mother. A huge fight had followed, her mother calling him impure and a blood traitor. She would have even hexed his friend if he hadn’t protected her. He had finally run away from them, dragging Jody along who was crying heavily.

Insurgence. The word was flashing in his mind like a stroboscope. It meant to revolt, insurrection. An act of rebellion, the Muggle dictionary he had skim through at Jody’s place said.

He needed to do something rebellious. He was a rebel in his own way at Hogwarts, being an unregistered Animagus and all. At home, even though he had tried to be the docile teenager at first, it didn’t work out very well. He had tried to please his parents, but they couldn’t be. Being Sorted into Gryffindor hadn’t helped, that’s for sure. He had never believed in this pure-blood supremacy stuff anyway. He had endured the bad comments about Muggles over the years, how they had no right to infiltrate the wizarding world, and that they only were an inferior race. Toujours pur was the family motto. Jody wasn’t inferior. Neither was Lily Evans, a fellow Grffindor. They were purer than any of his family members.

That’s why he was leaving. He didn’t want to be a part of this anymore. If it meant to be disowned by the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, then, be it. He didn’t care. At least, it would mean to have the freedom of living the way he wanted to, and to see who he wanted to see.

He closed his bag and glanced around his room one last time. Nevertheless, he did have some good memories in here. He swallowed hard to get rid of the feeling of anxiety that he could feel mounting in his throat. He would create new ones on his own. He then left with the intention of never coming back.

**********************************************

Title: For the Dark LordWord Count: 340Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd yrs; um, evilness and hints of abuse to comeAuthor's Note: The insurgent Bellatrix Lestrange is perhaps one of the most interesting characters I have ever had the pleasure of reading and writing.

For the Dark Lord

Her hair shined darkly in the shadows, as though the dark welcomed her presence. Menacingly, her heavy-lidded eyes glared at the house before her, but she still managed to hold herself with pride and ease. Soon, precious information would find its way into her manipulative hands.

"They will talk," she whispered, her voice full of malice.

Her three male companions only stared forward, their wands held steadily out in the open. She turned to them almost in a bored, regal manner, but an insane smile was fighting its way onto her features.

"Ready to catch our kill?" Her deep voice clearly indicated that she hungered for some blood.

"Bella-" one of the men began hesitantly, but he was instantly silenced by her murderous stare.

"No doubts! The Dark Lord awaits our return to his side. They will talk, and we will find him, and be known as his most faithful. He will rise again and we shall rule the world!"

Another of her companions gave a slight shudder at the hiss in her voice, reminiscent of the Dark Lord himself. The other two only nodded that they would follow Bella.

"Good. Now let's see exactly how fast you can make an Auror beg for mercy." Her tone implied that she meant to kill anyone who asked for a reprieve.

In complete silence, the four slipped from the shadows up to the house, making sure that the black hoods they wore concealed their faces. Once at the door, Bella lifted up her left sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark, faded black from the lack of use it had been in lately.

"For the Dark Lord," she intoned, and with a swift slash of her wand, the door in front of her exploded. Her eyes gleaming wickedly, she let out a cold laugh that only heightened when she heard a woman scream from inside.

"Leave no stone unturned," she ordered, making sure to give each man her death stare. The four then crossed the threshold brazenly, wands ablaze with power and greed.

************************************************** ********

Title: the cynic’s lamentRatings/Warnings: 6-7th years, slash, strong language, violenceWord Count: 500 exactlyA/N: It’s not totally clear, but this takes place in Next Gen. It’s from Scorpius to Albus, who’s quite delusional, a student born to be a revolutionary, but in the wrong time. There’s no real cause for the people to unite about. Also I had to cut this down by roughly 200 words.

Sometimes, I swear he’s here. Through the dull chatter I can still see him, dark hair a mess and eyes blazing with passion. Not for a person, or even something tangible, but passion for an idea. He has no doubt about anything, because his brain and heart are too far convinced in his ideals, and his words draw in everyone around him.

He’s everything writers dream of. The enigmatic leader who just missed being a hero, a man with words full of charisma and a heart unable to be indifferent. But he needs a cynic to keep him from flying too close to the sun. I guess that was my job, to remind him that no one gives a s***.

It’s harsh, but true. He convinced the entire common room that the government is flawed to the point of infectivity, but that’s because they listen. No one else does, and a group of students isn’t a revolution. A story worthy of an olden age, but a story nonetheless.

I had played my part. I was the harsh voice in the corner of common room, the sneering laughter. And he hated me, because no one idolizes the realists. But the world needs us, the dreamers need us. It’s our job to to keep their heads on their shoulders and their arses out of prison. When we fall for the dreamer, bad things happen. We start to conform to them.

From my corner, I had listened as he stood there, completely convinced by his own words, blissfully unaware of what would happen. Because angry words in common rooms turn to protests, which turn to rallies, and before he knows it he had started a revolution. And as I fell in love with the only f***ing person incapable of feeling it, I convinced myself he would be fine. I became a bystander, and watched as they marched to their deaths, fighting for an imaginary cause.

The rebel son of our world's savior, trying to mend something unbroken. But as quickly as it began, it was over. A protest in Hogsmeade, protesting some new legislation the Wizengamot wanted to pass, until some plan I hadn’t listen to happened. Wands were drawn and students fell. Most to be arrested, but war heroes aren’t pleased when seventeen-year-olds with rose-tinted glasses try to ruin what they fought for.

And I couldn’t save him. His eyes, normally so full of anger and passion, duller than stone as he’s dragged off in the chains he tried to free everyone else from.

So, I wait. I wait for the day he walks back into the common room, fuming over something, I wait for him to finally see why I’m so harsh, how I was trying not to lose him.

I didn’t want to lose a real person, with real breaths and real blood pumping through his veins, not some idea. I’m not in love with what he said, what he thought.

Sadly leaving us this week are the lovely Broken Promise and Viv. Both take away 5 shiny participation points and will be hugged and squished in our sorrow.
A second stage win for the Snakeyness that is Julia the opaleye. Who can stop her?

Now, let us move on to Week 3, which has the tradition of ... Oh, wait, that’s week 4. There is no tradition for week 3. Instead, I bring you some lines from a play I’m in.

Originally Posted by Time of My Life - Alan Ayckbourne

‘Nevertheless – you know, in life, you get moments – just occasionally which you can identify as being among the happy moments. They come up occasionally, even take you by surprise, and sometimes you’re so busy worrying about tomorrow or thinking about yesterday that you tend to miss out on them altogether.’

Use this quotation as inspiration for your drabble. It must be written from the perspective of someone who was living at Hogwarts under the Carrow regime.

‘Nevertheless – you know, in life, you get moments – just occasionally which you can identify as being among the happy moments. They come up occasionally, even take you by surprise, and sometimes you’re so busy worrying about tomorrow or thinking about yesterday that you tend to miss out on them altogether.’

Use this quotation as inspiration for your drabble. It must be written from the perspective of someone who was living at Hogwarts under the Carrow regime.

Please read all eight drabbles and vote for your favourite and least favourite.

Lavender brought her carved wooden music box into the common room and set it on a table. She wound it up, and it began to play a tinkling melody.

"Dance with me, Neville," she said, extending her hand to him. "I'll teach you a country dance." He arose slowly from his chair where he had been doing homework, a puzzled look on his face.

"Here," Lavender said, placing him at her side. "Put your arm across the back of my shoulders like this, and we hold hands. One step forward, one back, three forward..." Expertly she led him through the steps of the simple figure in the middle of the room while the music box played and the younger students at their tables watched.

Standing up, Parvati pointed her wand at the music box. "Repetio." Now it would play continuously. She motioned to Seamus to join her. "What?' he responded. Parvati glanced over at the younger students and made a slight gesture. He understood. There was so much unspoken communication these days.

Parvati and Seamus positioned themselves behind Lavender and Neville, imitating the steps. Now that there were two couples, Lavender showed the others how they could fluidly change partners after each repetition of the dance figure. Nobody in the room spoke; all the other Gryffindors had laid down their quills and books and just stared at the dancers, mesmerized.

"Come, the rest of you, take a partner and join the line," Lavender urged. "Everyone dances."

The younger students pushed back their chairs and approached the center of the room. They had learned the safety that lay in obedience, in not questioning or resisting, in blending in with the others.

Lavender arranged the pairs in a ring, girls on the inside, boys on the outside. There were only eighteen couples -- half of Gryffindor was missing. She and Neville, in the center, demonstrated the figure and the students practiced. Rejoining the ring with Neville, she pointed her wand at the box. "Sonorus," and the music was louder.

"After each repetition, when the girl turns around, she reaches to the boy behind her and takes a new partner. Let's try it." Forward, back, one two three, turn... They caught on quickly, and their furrowed brows of concentration relaxed into faint happy smiles. Arms across shoulders, fingers clasping, hands reaching out to other Gryffindors. Human contact, something done for fun, the melody playing on.

After every few bars the girls moved back one pace to a new partner while the dancing ring as a whole moved forward three paces. Tall older students momentarily paired with short younger students. Each girl danced for a brief span of time with each boy.

We will protect you. In this room you are safe. They cannot keep us from dancing.

Neville felt a migraine barreling down on him as he entered the mock common room the Room of Requirement had turned into. It had been another long day under the Carrows’ regime of torment and fear. As he fell into his favorite armchair near a fireplace, he soaked in the warmth emanating off the fire. Yesterday they were ordered to practice the Imperius Curse on first years, and today they started using the Cruciatus Curse on small animals. It was nauseating, and built an anger in him that made him weary. He hated the Carrows, and everything they stood for.

Moreover, he was not alone. There were others who resisted against such abhorrent lessons, but somewhere along the way Neville had become the leader of them all. He had never felt particularly brave, nor did he feel he was the right one to lead. It took everything in him to keep himself together. There were always dark questions and suppositions dancing in the fringe lands of his mind. What if the actions he took led to dire consequences for his peers? What if the brutality instigated by the Carrows increased?

The atmosphere of fear had already settled into the school, and seeped into its pores. It was becoming harder and harder to convince others that the resistance was necessary. More and more people simply gave up or gave in. Neville was not like Harry. He didn’t have the will of steel as Harry did, nor the charisma to inspire bravery. He felt that one small thing would make him fly apart at the seams.

At that moment, Neville looked down towards a small table next to him, and the plate of sugar cookies on it. Just as one small thing could make him fly apart, it could also keep him together. He never knew who left those cookies, or how they knew he liked them, but every time he saw them, Neville smiled. It was such a simple act of kindness, but it was enough to keep Neville sane. He only wished he knew who it was that left them.

****************

Hannah silently stood in a corner of the mock common room. Neville had yet to see her, which allowed her to admire him from afar. He was not the same gentle Neville she had grown up with, but that did not stop her from loving him. It fact, she loved him even more because the Neville before her had become a man to admire.

Of course, Neville didn’t know this. She even wondered if he knew she existed. That didn’t matter to her. What mattered was the smile he got on his face whenever he saw her plate of cookies. A smile was so rare in Hogwarts these days and even rarer for Neville. Even if they left Hogwarts alive, and he never remembered her name, the smile he had on his face in that very moment was enough for her. It was her ray of hope.

George settled himself on the roof and stretched out his legs. “Angelina Johnson, you naughty girl.” He reached to steady her as she joined him, the bottle of wine she carried sloshing loudly as her bum met the tiles. “Right under their noses… very impressive.” He conjured glasses and held them while she poured.

“I learned from the best.” She clinked her glass against his. “Everyone’s properly pissed. They won’t miss one bottle.”

She was right. Four years after the battle, the party was still going strong.

“It’s been a strange day.” Her voice mingled with the laughter and music coming from the street below.

“Yeah.”

They’d attended the ceremony at Hogwarts, had dinner with his family and several others, and then gone to Lee’s party—the one they’d just escaped in search of air.

“I can feel your eyes boring into the side of my head, Johnson. Are you working some special enchantment?” He grinned at her -- she had indeed been watching him.

Her serious expression turned quickly playful. “Perhaps.”

He watched the red liquid slide over her lips. It had taken years for him to notice her beauty; lately, he could think of little else. Her hair was pulled back, and in the moonlight, her skin was like coffee, rich and dark and inviting.

George looked away, focusing instead on the London lights. “I talk to him sometimes.”

“Yeah?”

She knew what he meant without having to ask; it was always like that.

“What do you talk about? How to make those Slurping Bogies wiggle?”

He laughed. “Family, the shop… what a pr**k he was to get killed, whether or not I should drink myself into oblivion on any given day…” He half-smiled. “Whatever’s on my mind.”

She moved close enough that their arms were pressed together. “What have you talked about lately?”

“Happiness.”

“Happiness,” she repeated. “Whose?”

“Mine. It’s strange to be miserable without end, you know. Grief is all-consuming, but—“

“What?”

“There are good days--people and conversations that surprise me, that remind me I’m alive. There’s guilt, of course, and feeling like I can’t breathe, but the happy moments… there are more of them now." He set the wine glasses aside and shifted to face her. "I finally realized the common denominator was you.”

"George..."

“But it felt wrong, like you were out-of-bounds.”

“Oh, honestly! Every time we snogged, Fred ruined it by laughing. It was never serious, George.”

“He told me.”

Then her hand was on his chest, her voice low with emotion. “I only wanted his friendship.” Her eyes filled up. “Please, George.”

He pressed his fingers to her lips and whispered, “Don’t you want to know what he said?”

“Dunno,” she managed. “Do I?”

“He said, Don’t be stupid, George.” He kissed her cheek. “It was one bloody date.”

Then her arms moved up and up, snaking around his neck and clutching his hair as his mouth covered hers.

Title: Turn On The LightWord count: 500Rating/Warnings: 3rd-5th years; implied violenceA/N: Italicised quotation at the end taken from the Prisoner of Azkaban film.

Her rooms are dark, just as they are every night. Minerva prefers it that way. She sits at her desk in the corner, a single candle providing light for the latest batch of essays to mark.

The problem is this: how can she live in such brightness when there are children within this castle who are hunted, tortured? When there is a brilliant boy with his brilliant friends on the run—barely adults yet marked by death already? When Albus, Alastor and Cedric Diggory are dead?

During the day Minerva moves with purpose, teaches with passion, protects her students with all the bravery she can muster. But when she retires to her chambers, that is the time she allows for indulgences such as fear and shame. So she turns out the light.

Live through this and we won’t look back, Slughorn told her after a particularly harrowing night involving a thumbless first-year in the Hospital Wing. It’s an impossible thought to fathom when she can barely look forward. Minerva still can’t get the expression on Poppy’s face out of her mind—the sick stoicism as she cleaned the child’s wound.

Minerva thinks the students noticed her endurance falter this morning, though, as they told her of the Carrows’ latest. Hufflepuff woke to find their plaque to Cedric Diggory blasted from the wall of their common room.

The essays are not long tonight. She is about to flip the first piece of parchment over when she sees it. One word.

It makes her frown because it seems so foreign in her dim room, with the dim corridors outside leading to the dim dormitories containing the dim eyes of students who are no longer children.

happiness

It’s small, defiant. The ink looks darker than the rest of the essay even though it isn’t. Bold. Drawing her eye so that she cannot look away. Minerva rubs her face and wonders why. Hannah Abbott has no reason to remember what that word means. She, like so many of her peers, has not known happiness for months. But there it is.

She begins to read the next essay. At the end she finds more words, tucked at the bottom of the paper just for her.

can be found

She curls the page up to look at the next essay and the next, each time smiling a little wider, breathing a little heavier until she is gasping with laughter and sobs.

She remembers that day in the Great Hall when Albus entreated the school to always hope. Clearly, her students remember, too.

Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.

Minerva rises from her seat, a jump in her step that feels just as foreign as what she is about to do. When she flicks her wand at the sconces on her walls, she knows it is right.

For who is she to wallow in darkness when it is the light they are fighting for?

The shadows twist into contorted devils, and every sound is death approaching. Apprehension creeps down through my skin, gnaws its way into my harrowed soul. Even in the dry heat, a permeating cold settles, full of fear. I huddle under blankets for security, knowing my foolishness, yet the night harbors the darkest memories.

In the dark, I shudder.

I cannot close my eyes, for gory images fill my mind, and a laughter echoes, chilling my veins. The hissing of a snake soon drowns out the night, and solace has vanished into a deep abyss. A solitary tear finds its way onto my hollowed cheek, even though it is known that I do not cry. Yet this terrifying anguish consumes me, smothers any bravery and hope.

In the dark, I scream.

It has no voice, lost to the ether and the vile fear eating me. It only finds its way into my eyes- a stark, petrified stare. In those moments, a part of me feels relief that everyone is sleeping. But are they? Their breathing is always labored; creases of worry plague their skin; behind the eyelids, nightmares plunder and rage the peace abiding. My heart just wants to give up- it just wants to die.

In the dark, I wonder.

Where is he? Does he think of me? Is he just as scared as me? How close is he to defeating all the evil and the pain beset upon our world? Will I ever see him again? Why did I never stop to enjoy those moments we had, lazing by the lake, merely holding his hand… Our last was but a bitter second when he chose to walk away, embarrassed by the parting. But now, I wish I could visit that day, tell myself to take what I could, because the joy, no matter how repressed, wouldn’t last. How foolish that I thought I could bottle up that delight, keep it safe within my soul! The darkness stole that first, and left but empty shadows to multiply and grow.

In the dark, I abide.

The dread overwhelms me, and it seems that there is no escape. It seems all that is left is a depraved and wicked reign. It seems that nothing good shall rise again. Fire no longer blesses with warmth and hope, but with cursed abandonment. The air is thick with dejection, suffocating everything. And I am left, in the dark, to die.

Ginny stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by fellow students, and yet alone.

This year had been… she had no words to describe it, that beast that lodged in her chest and gnawed at everything it could reach – her heart, her stomach, her very soul. She felt like a blindfolded little girl, trying to cross a bridge over a chasm, with nothing to hold on to. No rails, no friendly hands; just a black abyss that gaped open above and beneath her.

Bill's wedding was a brief respite that quickly turned into a nightmare. She remembered the shuffle to run, to hide, to bury yourself in any hole that was remotely big enough. She remembered her mother's hands gripping her shoulders…

"Hey."

Ginny looked up. Neville's face seemed unexpectedly close, but she didn't even gasp. It took a lot to surprise her these days.

"Chin up, Ginny. You might even notice that the sun's out for a change."

"Yeah. That's great." When did she become so bitter?

"Hey, hey, none of that. I know it's tough – but there's lots of stuff to be thankful for."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not in detention for a change, and neither are you."

Ginny found that squeezing a chuckle out was not as difficult as she had thought.

"We are still fighting, you know." Neville gave her a small smile. Ginny's mouth seemed to change shape of its own accord. It was an even smaller smile than Neville's, but it was a start.

"He'll be fine, you know," he continued, as though the greatest danger the subject of their thoughts was facing were the clubs of the opposing team's Beaters. "If anyone can do it and live, it's Harry."

"I know," she said. "But I wish I knew…"

"So do I," Neville continued. "We are the DA; we are meant to be with him, where he needs us… but, you know…" He broke off, watching a couple of first years argue over something. "I keep wondering if he needs us here – where he cannot be. Think of it as holding the fort. Surviving until reinforcements arrive."

They walked around the courtyard, talking and occasionally holding hands. Ginny did not realize just how peaceful she had felt in those brief fifteen minutes before afternoon classes began. In that year, comfort gained the strange quality of being detectable only by its absence. Peace was an odd, rare visitor, and contentment was a downright stranger. She and Neville got more detentions than Fred and George had – at least, Ginny didn't remember them being away from the common room this often. They waited and tried to be ready. There was no way to prepare for what was coming, though.

But that was either the past or the future. Right now, Ginny is in detention, a week after the courtyard walk. It is the middle of February, the beast freezes her insides, and she doesn't even dream of peace.

Title: Dreamless SleepWord count: 500Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd, noneA/N: After much slashing of words, I present you this.

Lavender lies in her hospital bed, staring at the wall. It's about all she can do right now, with the gashes across her torso that threaten to open up when she moves and the five different potions she has to take.

"He was human when he attacked you, so you won't be a werewolf," the Healer told her once she was conscious enough to understand.

"Then why am I still here?" she asked him, trying to sit up and gasping with pain.

'You sustained extensive injury and blood loss. We want to make sure you're in no danger of reopening the wounds."

She's almost never alone. Between the friends and her parents, her bedside is bustling, but there are times, like now, where it's close to midnight and her pain potion doesn't feel like it's helping, that Lavender feels more alone than she's ever felt before. All she's left with are her thoughts.

She remembers the last year, where each day brought the threat of death and was a struggle to stand strong and fight.

Her Healer in training walks by, doing his nightly rounds. He stops when he sees Lavender awake.

"Is everything all right, Miss Brown?" he asks, entering the room. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Lavender shakes her head, but the Healer doesn't look convinced. He pulls up a chair and sits by her bedside.

"Miss Brown, I may be inexperienced, but I can tell when something is wrong."

"It's Lavender, and don't you have rounds to do?"

The Healer shakes his head. "You were my last stop."

"It's just that my mind is running around and I can't sleep. Can I get a sleeping potion?" If he's offering, she may as well ask.

"Why don't you talk to me about it? In my experience, it will only be worse in the morning if we give you a sleeping potion in this state."

Lavender looks at the Healer. He has kind eyes, she decides, and something about him that makes her trust him.

"It's just that I keep on thinking about the last year and how awful it was, but at the same time, looking back, it had some of the best moments of my life. To be a part of something, and to feel trust in a time when it seemed impossible, that's truly something isn't it? Or those little moments, like when Seamus and I went out into the grounds to just get away from it all. I just keep wishing I had taken the time to appreciate it, and now, so many of those people are dead ..."

Lavender bursts into tears, which makes her body hurt, causing the sobs to intensify. She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up to see her Healer, who hands her a vial of potion.

"Here, I promise it will all feel better in the morning."

Lavender takes the vial and drinks its contents, slipping into the black void that is a dreamless sleep.

The Carrows don’t play fair. I know it sounds pretty f***ing obvious, but not in the way you’d think. (If you honestly expected them to listen to a blubbered ‘But, Professor, I didn’t do it. It was the Slytherin trying to frame me’ you’re insane.) I’m talking about the deepest sense of the word; I get caught, I should be punished. Right?

Wrong. They do punish you, but if you’re one of the ‘rebellion b******s’ like me, sometimes that just isn’t enough. There’s something dancing around in the back of their tiny little heads that makes them think that they can break us. They think that a mindset magically exists in every pureblood, and even in halfies like me, and that all it takes is a few beatings and torture curses to break it out of us. Or, you know, a little bit of psychological damage. But as they do it, their sickeningly patronizing voices remind you they’re just trying to fix you. After all, what could a bunch of f***ed up kids know about right and wrong?

I’m screaming now, screaming my bloody lungs out as I’m begging them to stop. Long ago I stopped giving a flying bat s*** what they did to me, but I can’t handle them hurting her - or anyone - when I have to sit there and know it’s my fault. Lavender writhes on the floor, who I’ve known for six d*** years, suffering because of me.

(hope shatters)

There’s something about her screams that reminds me just how hopeless this all is. Why are we fighting when Harry’s on the run? Merlin, it’s hard to even imagine last year, when I still had my best friend and Harry was just the kid trying to keep the weight of the world (I still snort because of how literal that is) from crushing him. Were those times... happy?

That word doesn’t even exist anymore. The world is Lavender’s screams as they hang her up by her wrists. They’re behind her back, and I know her shoulders are dislocated... I hear the pop. The last time I heard that sound I had accidently turned Dean’s eyebrows orange during Transfiguration.

Dean. I don’t even know if he’s f***ing alive. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, as girly as that sounds. You know what? I don’t care anymore.

At the rate this is going, I’m not going to live to see whatever dramatic showdown Potter and Volde... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have, so I’ll admit it. I’m f***ing terrified; I’m terrified all of my friends will die, I’m terrified of what’s going to happen to the D.A., and I’m terrified that what we’re doing means nothing at all. Neville keeps saying we’re fighting for a better time, that Harry will win.

I don’t see it. Happiness is an idea of fairytales, the make-believe of children. And Merlin knows I’m not an innocent anymore.

So, as you can see there is a three way tie for bottom, which means I have to invoke this rule here.

8. In the event of a tie, the drabble with the most amount of negative votes will be eliminated.

So sadly leaving us this week are Oregonian and Weasley Mom (Not going to lie, this is a bit of a shock as Lori’s a three time finalist as well as being a fabulous Hufflepuff – not that I’m at all biased - ahem). Let us hold them tight, squish away the pain, and hand over five shiny participation points for their houses.

Winning again ...do I need to continue... is JULIAAAAAAA (Theo Paleye) who appears to be resurrecting Slytherin’s fortunes with a great deal of panache. Huzzah!

And now on – indecently – to the next prompt. This is somewhat traditional for week four, so with much ado about nothing, (you see what I did there, Ser Jones) I present ...

Prompt Four

A Brawl

Here is your definition

Brawl – a noisy quarrel or fight.

The catch

The reason for the brawl must be trivial.

New catch (just to trick the old timers amongst you)

At least one of your brawlers must at some stage in their life have been in canon on Voldemort’s side.

Now, read this carefully. I am in a play on the evening of 6th June, and thus will not be posting the drabbles until Friday morning. Thus you have until 9AM BST Friday 7th June to send me your drabbles.

Rodolphus sighed as he looked about him at the dilapidated foyer he stood in. The house he inhabited with his brother and Antonin Dolohov was in a sad state of disrepair, a far cry from the grandeur he had grown up in. Rodolphus knew he shouldn’t complain. It was the best place they could find off the Ministry’s grid after their escape from Azkaban.

Well, at least I have my freedom, and a bottle of firewhiskey.

Rodolphus had needed every bit of that firewhiskey more and more lately. Living with his brother and Dolohov was turning out to be quite trying. They were not models of good temperament or sanity. Anything set off the fiery temper of Antonin Dolohov, and most times it was his own brother.

Just when he was wondering what his companions were up to, a loud crash sounded from the nearby room, shaking the dusty walls around him. Rodolphus pulled out his wand, and rushed into the nearby room.

Expecting to see a small cadre of Aurors fighting his fellow Death Eaters, Rodolphus was surprised to see his brother and Antonin facing off with each other. Spells ricocheted off the walls, leaving nothing but gaping holes and splintered wood fragments. The slouching couch in the corner was in shambles, the armchairs were pockmarked with burn marks, and their only table upturned and missing a leg. He found himself at a loss for words for what he was seeing.

“It’s mine, Lestrange,” Antonin shouted as he shot a curse at Rabastan. Rabastan dodged it, and sent a return volley.

“It was never yours, Dolohov. You can’t claim a right to something that was never yours!” Rabastan spat out.

“What is going on here?” Rodolphus roared, his words bringing both men to a sudden and silent halt. Rabastan and Antonin turned towards Rodolphus whose wand was shifting back and forth between the two.

“Antonin tried to take my collector’s edition of Witch Weekly magazine with Gilderoy Lockhart on the cover. No one touches my Witch Weekly collector’s edition!” Rabastan raged, as he pointed to a small bookcase in the far corner.

Rodolphus knew all too well about his brother’s odd obsession he had gained in Azkaban. Rabastan had practically every issue of Witch Weekly magazine that centered on Gilderoy Lockhart. He said he read them for the articles, but Rodolphus found that hard to believe. Rodolphus never thought that the rough and crude Dolohov would be swept into this obsession as well.

Rodolphus looked to the small bookcase his brother was pointing at where the said collector’s edition was neatly placed on one of the shelves. Gilderoy’s smile flashed on the worn and yellowing cover. And at the foot of the bookcase was Rodolphus’s precious bottle of firewhiskey, shattered on the ground.

Rodolphus’s eye began to twitch. To anyone who knew him, that was never a good sign. He took one last look at Rabastan and Antonin before turning his wand on the magazine.

“Who the hell drinks coffee?” Draco muttered, rifling through the cupboards of the flat.He was planning on the normal ‘steal food then run away’ routine that worked so well, especially when he had a pounding headache that most likely came from the firewhiskey last night.

“I do,” a voice responded, causing Draco to jump. “Going to leave again?” Well, this wasn’t very good, he thought to himself, turning around to face the flat owner with his stupidly circular and askew glass. If Potter thought what they had was involved emotions, this wasn’t going to go well. Draco couldn’t love him - hell, he didn’t know if he could tolerate him - but Harry was a good f***. A beautifully screwed-up, in denial about his PTSD Harry who was desperate to feel anything. It was almost tragic how low he’d sunk.

“Are you not British? What sort of prat drinks coffee?” Draco asked sharply, giving up on avoiding conversation.

“Coffee’s stronger,” Harry explained calmly, not rising to the bait. Of course Potter would play the saint.

“But it tastes like Hagrid’s beard,” he retorted, wrinkling his nose.

“And you know what that tastes like... how?” Harry asked, a smirk playing on his lips. The same lips that had travelled all over Draco the night before. No. Not appropriate...

“Just a little imagination. But let’s be honest. No man drinks coffee,” Draco responded snootily, watching with satisfaction as he finally got some rise out of Harry. “I bet even your little Weasley girlfriend drinks tea.”

“Don’t insult her. She has nothing to do with this,” Harry shot back defensively.

“I think she does. Considering she doesn’t know her perfect little boyfriend is secretly f***ing a Malfoy on the weekends.” Draco’s words were cold, and finally that signature flash of anger appeared in Harry’s eyes. This was about to get good.

“At least I don’t have a fiancé,” he shot back, his voice low. “And for the record, Ginny prefers coffee.”

“No, you just have the most emotional baggage I’ve ever seen in a twenty-year-old. And I knew there was a reason I didn’t like her. Apart from the fact she spent a good two years stalking you,” Draco responded dryly.

“Shut it,” Harry shot back, his voice rising. “Just get out.”

“You know I’m right. Also it’s been proven that tea is better.” Draco just couldn’t seem to let it go. He knew he was dancing dangerously close to the last nerve, but it was fun doing this with Potter. It made the circumstances of their relationship seem less awkward.

“Just leave. I don’t want to argue over something stupid right now, and if you’re going to be an arse, get out.” Harry turned away, knowing Draco could see himself out.

“Fine. But I’m bringing tea next time,” he sang, waltzing out the door, tie loose around his neck.

“Bye, Draco,” Harry responded sarcastically, flinging a shoe at the retreating figure for good measure.

Her head pounds as she tries to pick herself up and off the floor. Merlin, what a night. She tries to walk – it is actually not as painful as she'd thought it would be, considering her back had taken a nasty beating. Let this be a lesson to you, Pansy.

She tries to remember what exactly led to her waking up on the floor of her apartment, hungover and sore. She had gone to that seedy little pub to see whether anyone would come looking for her. Ever since Pansy got out of Azkaban, she'd been trying to reestablish some part of her former group. Malfoy she'd given up on already, but Gregory was a possibility. And she went to that stupid pub they visited together once or twice in the past, to see if she could find him.

For the record, she could not.

Instead, she found two blokes – halfway to inebriation when she came, and completely drunk towards the end of the show – who were clearly trying to impress each other – and the vaguely interested hag of a girl a table away – with their exploits in the war. Pansy could handle only about ten minutes of their prattle with a straight face. She stalked off to the bar at that point, hoping that by the time she was back with another Firewhiskey, they'd be too drunk to spout nonsense.

No such luck. When she came back, they were still talking, and she was drunk enough to be … indiscreet with her opinion on their captaining a dragon division of the Order of the Phoenix.

Apparently, bursting into loud guffaws (her mother would kill her if she had heard) was not an appropriate reaction. The blokes turned to face her – and she was still laughing.

"Think it funny, do you?" one of them leered.

"Yeah, I do," she said, still amused.

She could not remember the two or three sentences they had exchanged before something in their faces provoked her drunk brain to attack. She had been quite experienced – her brash mouth often led to fistfights at Hogwarts. They usually took place in the common room, and usually included Crabbe as her opponent. Maybe that was another reason for what happened yesterday – there was something of Crabbe in these idiots' faces, and no one had annoyed her quite like Crabbe had.

One way or another, this fight had been something. The bloke who talked her into anger was easy because he was the drunker one. His buddy had the dual advantage of a leaner, wirier frame and more sober brainpower. It had been he that made her wince in remembrance of heavy blows…

Pansy makes it to the bathroom, looks into the mirror, and winces again. Where was Gregory when you needed him, anyway? They had always been together before.

She gets into the shower and winces as hot water hits her bruised body.

It had come to Narcissa Malfoy’s attention that someone was stealing her lingerie. She’d noticed last week, when her favourite bustier went missing.

She didn’t mention it to Lucius. The thought of discussing something so trivial made her feel ill. They were living in fear. They were living with fear, and the darkness that pervaded their home was choking.

It was also possible that Lucius was the culprit. How she wished that was true! Since the Dark Lord had entered their home, too many unsavoury people came and went as they pleased. Not all Death Eaters were equal in Narcissa’s eyes. There was Pureblood and then there were vile people like Yaxley, whose origins were too murky for comfort. If any of them were nicking her knickers there would be more than hell to pay.

Tonight she’d find out.

She stood in the dark, wand aimed at the door, waiting. Her jinx was meant to incapacitate the intruder, but if it was someone horrid she’d want to do more than jinx them. The door creaked open. In the shadows she could see a short figure creeping past her dresser.

BANG.

The jinx went off. The thief sprang at her, arms clenched to his sides, unable to grab at her. He slumped against her and she pushed him away, but his legs swung round, sending her to the floor. She grunted, flicking on the lights.

Narcissa looked down at the figure pinned beneath her. She gagged and leapt up.

“B-b-but yours are so luxurious,” he stuttered. “The r-rags I Transfigure never last... and you have excellent taste.”

Oh good grief. She removed the jinx, and he stumbled to his feet.

“Get out of my room, rat. I’ll not have your filth going through my things let alone wearing lingerie that costs more than I could get for your head in Knockturn Alley.” Her wand pressed against his throat as she advanced on him. “And if I ever catch you doing this again… I will tell my darling sister exactly what you’ve been up to.” He yelped as she smiled sweetly before pushing him out the door.

The idea that Pettigrew—and parts of him she didn’t want to think about—had touched her most intimate robes disgusted Narcissa. She felt dirty. Her stomach tickled with the acidic abhorrence usually reserved for Mudbloods. She needed a nice long bath.

Opening the door to her bathroom, she paused. Lucius stood before the bathroom mirror, obliviously eyeing himself. He was nearly naked, apart from the green and black negligee she liked to wear on their wedding anniversary. He looked up.

His mouth fell open as Narcissa dragged her eyes from his bare thighs to flushed cheeks.

“It looks better on me, dear,” she said, closing the door without another word.

Pettigrew was right about one thing. Narcissa Malfoy had excellent taste.

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Title: Egg PanWord Count: 390Rating/Warnings: 1st-2nd/mild languageA/N: Hopefully this is something that everything can connect to at some level.

"Scorpius!" Draco bellowed from the kitchen. "How many times do I have to tell you! When you make eggs, clean up after yourself! I'm not your house elf!"

Scorpius sighed, put a bookmark in his novel, and pushed himself out of his chair. "Yes, Dad, coming." He rolled his eyes and walked to the kitchen to find his father holding the egg pan in his hand.

"The egg is caked to the pan, Scorpius. If you had cleaned it right away, it would have taken five seconds."

"Yes, Dad, I heard you the first time." There was a slight edge to Scorpius' voice that he didn't mean to put in, but he knew immediately after saying it that his father, who was in a p*ssy mood already, would pick up on it and read it the wrong way.

"Don't you use that tone with me, young man." Draco said. "I'm your father, and you'll show some respect!"

"It's high time you started to act like an adult around here. You've been done Hogwarts for two years now, I shouldn't have to remind you to clean up after yourself all the time."

Scorpius turned to his father and glared at him. "I do act like an adult!"

"Really, because last time I checked, you don't help around the house and just leave a mess for your mother and I to clean up. You need to stop acting like a child and start pulling your weight like an adult."

"Then treat me like one!" Scorpius yelled. "You expect me to do things, but you still treat me like I'm fourteen with all your stupid rules telling me what I can and can't do. I can't be an adult until you let me!"

"How am I supposed to treat you like an adult when you still act like a bloody teenager!" Draco's voice rose in volume.

"Fine, Dad, whatever." Scorpius turned to the sink, finished washing the dish, dried it with his wand and tossed it in the cupboard with a clang. "Happy? The stupid pan is washed." He stomped out of the room, grabbed his broomstick, and walked out the back door, fuming with anger, and slamming the door behind him.

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Title: Words, Wands, and a Fist... Word Count: 487Ratings/Warnings: 1st-2nd yrs; mild language, a rivalry... A/N: Why do James and Sirius like getting themselves into trouble?

He turned to leave, but instinctively knew that the others would not follow him. Groaning, he wondered for the millionth time why he let them get away with almost everything and manipulate his will.

“Have fun, Moony,” James catcalled to his friend, and he pompously walked right into the pub, Sirius on his heels.

Remus rubbed his forehead. He really didn’t want to walk into The Hog’s Head. Something in his gut told him it was a bad idea. In fact, something was nudging him to go to his friends’ side, because they would probably need him. Those trouble-makers!

Furrowing his brow, he gritted his teeth, spun on his heel, and headed into the pub. Instantly, he knew that there was a problem.

The tension was so thick that it was hard to breathe. James and Sirius were glaring at another table that held four occupants Remus recognized: Avery, Rosier, Mulciber, and Regulus Black. These four were glaring right back, although Regulus was struggling to keep his gaze trained on his own brother.

Sensing a fight was imminent, Remus placed his hand on Sirius’ shoulder to remind him to keep his temper. “We should leave,” Remus hoarsely whispered in his ear.

Sirius didn’t acknowledge his friend in any way. Instead, he yelled across the bar, “What are you finks looking at?”

A muscle twitched in Rosier’s jaw, and Regulus finally lowered his eyes to his own lap.

“I asked you a question!” Sirius snarled, starting forward. Remus pulled him back, but to no avail. James didn’t even bother to help. Instead, he seemed to be having a staring contest with Mulciber.

“I might ask why filthy blood traitors and mudblood lovers wish to grace us with their presence,” Rosier answered back, his voice full of malice.

Both James and Sirius snapped. Remus didn’t have any time to stop them from pulling their wands out and pointing them at the foursome. However, Avery, Mulciber, and Rosier were just as quick.

Remus looked to the barman for help, but the man just kept cleaning out his glasses with some filthy rags.

“I see we outnumber you,” Avery jeered.

“Oh really?” James asked.

“James…” Remus said in a warning tone.

Both Sirius and James seemed to finally realize that Remus was there. James sighed, and then he nodded to Sirius to pocket his wand. Mulciber was smirking horribly.

“Let’s go,” Remus sternly said. Sirius began to walk out, but James swiftly punched Mulciber in the face and then he took off out the door. Remus and Sirius quickly followed suit, and Remus silently told himself to give a lecture to James if they managed to escape the four boys now racing after them.

So, leaving us this week is Ellie (iMusic17) but she takes with her five shiny points for Slytherin and the knowledge that she got to the last six - yayayaya.

And ... look ... an upset. This week's winner is the fabulous eternalangel - respected Claw and old timer like me. Well done, Sheena. (But beware the Slyth backlash, snakes fight hardest under attack)

And onto the next prompt!

Word beads (ha ha, you love me now)

There are five words below. You must use them in your drabble. They may be used in any order. You may change words slightly, so using plurals is allowed as is changing them to be adjectives or verbs. For example: you may change towel to towelling.

Mauve
Towel
Pears
Drum
Trifle

AAAAAND, because I like a catch ... this must be Marauder era (1971-1978) and based at Hogwarts. (Don't feel as if you have to write one of the Marauders, though, there are other characters.)